


Unpoetic

by dovecitadel



Category: Voltron - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cheerleaders, Dare, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Football, M/M, POV First Person, Present Tense, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovecitadel/pseuds/dovecitadel
Summary: When a dare leads Lance unpoetically toppling head over heels for Keith in the middle of a football game, the pair struggle to differentiate feelings of love and lust, anger and sorrow, acceptance and denial regarding one another. Neither are as content as they outwardly seem on their own, and neither can ignore the burning desire compelling them to come together again and again. How will they move forward when they began on a false start? Their friends just may come to the rescue.Contemporary Alternate Universe.College/Football Setting.Football Player Lance X Cheerleader KeithOngoing | (!) in the Chapter Demarcates 18+ Content | Peer-Verified Good Literature





	1. Performance

Running the field awakens my easily exhausted mind. The spirit of competition rounds up every nerve, every muscle, every ounce of blood and screams, "Perform at your highest!" until I can't bare to stand still. I'm not thinking about the weight of breathing, or blinking, or sweating, or my feet slipping on the astroturf. I'm thinking about the ball and how I'm going to get the thing in my hands, across the field, into a touchdown. 

"Lance!" someone calls from beside me.

It's a guy's voice, but not belonging to any of my teammates. I turn my head for a split second to look, momentarily distracted from my focus. I'm surprised, but not really, to see it's the only male cheerleader on the cheer squad surrounded by the other girls as they all laugh and wave.

"You're doing great!" he yells, a smile on his face. "Don't forget to breathe!" Did he just fucking wink at me?

My heart picks up, and I do the opposite of what I'm advised. How closely is he looking at me, to know I'm holding my breath? I blink incredulously at him. I want to respond with some kind of quick-witted reply. But my attention is too far spread.

"Lance!" this time, it's the linebacker. "Heads up!"

The football comes across the field, within my threshold, void of players from the other team. It's a clear and easy catch, but I fumble and almost lose the damn thing as it comes into my hands. I clutch the pigskin, hands clammy and heart pounding.

"Lance, Lance, he's our man!" The cheerleaders start. "If he can't do it, no one can!"

It occurs to me that I should run. It feels like the entire world has their eyes on me. The band strikes up, the crowd joins the cheerleaders as they chant, and my legs move on their own accord. My head and my chest hurt like hell, the pressure weighing heavily on my shoulders to get this thing to the other side of the field, but I come to a crashing halt with another player. He leaps in front of me, tackling me head on.

Instinctively, I dodge sideways. I'm met with a dog-pile of other players, though. Every impact of a new body sends my brain deeper into a panicked shutdown for what feels like eternity. But I'm still clutching the football as if my life depends on it. Then the whistle blows. 

I've managed the ball up quite a few yard lines. Now, it's about to be my job to pass this thing to somebody more capable of rendering a Hail Mary than a long dash. But that cheerleader is still in my head, replacing all focus I had on winning the game. 

All I can see when I close my eyes is an image of him. His butt is really nice, I swallow hard at the thought. And that dazzlingly flirty smirk goes so well with his smolderingly dark eyes. No matter how hard I try to go back to the game, I just can't shake that look out of my frontal lobe. I want to steal another glance at him, but I know it'll only mess up my game further. I've got to regain my focus.

The cheerleaders start up again at just the wrong moment. They aren't chanting my name anymore, thank goodness, but I can pick out his voice amidst the girls' high-pitched squealing. Fuck, I'm about to get hard in the middle of the field. This is not a good time to be gay, I've gotta throw this damn ball. 

But I mess it up. I throw to the first face I recognize, only to be easily intercepted by the other team. I watch in dismay as the other team pulls off another touchdown perfectly, and my teammates hang their heads as we realize that we're not coming back this late in the game. This is not a great performance, even with good weather, a strong start, and a home crowd.

But the cheerleaders and the crowd don't give up their hope in us yet.

"Shake it off, Lance," he calls to me, catching me off guard. We make steady eye-contact this time, when I look up. He winks again, one arm akimbo, giving me a great profile-view of his body as he winks and waves toward another player. "You'll get it the next time!" He turns back to me and nods, an obvious indication as he gives my body a quick once-over.

I'm either drooling or blushing or both, but I'm not paying attention to the game anymore. I'm almost compelled to drift entirely off the field toward him. I don't remember his name off the top of my head, but now I desperately want to know. I really want to do ungodly things to him, actually. Now I'm definitely hard in the middle of the field, but even worse than letting the crowd tell, he can clearly tell.

"Keith," another cheerleader chastises him, "don't distract Lance!" She pulls him away so that they can create another formation to please the crowd. 

I shake my head and turn back to my own team's formation. But it doesn't do much good. We lose the game by thirty points, in the end. A steep loss, and a brutal yammering from the coach about how off we were tonight. I had a good start, I thought, but that cheerleader— Keith, I think— did me in. 

I've either got to stay as far away from him as I possibly can, or get that boy naked under my body. I'd almost prefer the latter, but there's no way I'd ever manage it. And this is not a great time to be thinking about it, surrounded by my teammates in the locker room. 

"McClain!" my best friend on the team heavily claps a hand on my shoulder, catching me off guard and jolting me into the air. "I saw that cheerleader flirting you up," he laughs, letting go. "You gonna hit that, or what?"

"Shut up, Hunk," I grumble, crossing my arms across my shirtless chest. "I lost my focus because of him." I fidget to pull on a clean shirt.

"Oh, lighten up," Hunk rolls his eyes. "You clearly thought he was cute. Even under your gear, it was obvious you were blushing at him. Do you have his number?" he presses.

My faces becomes unbearably hot as I shake my head.

"I bet I can get it for you," his voice is teasing, but I kinda hope he's serious. 

The blush on my face deepens as I shrug him off.

"I'll be right back," he says, feigning diplomacy.

Oh boy, this can't possibly end well for me. I better go after him. But before I can take a step, another hand claps my shoulder.

"Don't think you're getting away that easily, McClain." It's the coach. "We've gotta talk about your performance today."


	2. Distracted

My heart plummets as Coach S pulls me aside. I don't even have the time to stammer something quick-witted in my defense, though, because I'm suddenly distracted. Hunk is standing in my peripheral vision, a yellow Post-It note held loosely in his hand. I turn to stare helplessly at him, as Coach S drags me away, trying to catch Hunk's eye.

But before I do, Coach S pushes the door to his office shut. I swallow hard, facing certain doom.

"You tell me about your performance, McClain," Coach S begins, sitting at his desk and motioning for me to sit.

I let a beat of silence roll by. Coach S just looks at me expectantly, stony and a little terrifying.

"I— uhm— I got distracted," I admit nervously, only to be interrupted. "I should've—"

"—Before you got distracted. Start at the beginning," he prompts.

I blink, eyes daring to drift toward his window facing the locker room— still saturated with a wispy supply of vagabond players. The room is emptying, most either finished dressing or out of view in the showers. It occurs to me that I need to respond to Coach S if I want to live.

"I— well— I was playing the game," I shrug. "I saw chances and I took them. The first half was great, we were 10-10, and we had the ball going into the third quarter. I was really pumped, but..." I try to think. "My focus faltered. There was a lull in the action, on my side, for a minute. The ball was elsewhere and the thick of everything was away from me," I recall.

Coach S nods solemnly. How do I admit that a cheerleader distracted me? Should I lie? There's really no better excuse. Maybe I can just sugarcoat it. 

"Whatever chant the cheerleaders did grappled my attention," I say carefully, blushing hard.

Coach S cracks a smirk under the layers of unimpressed frowning, apparently understanding words I didn't say. He lets me continue.

"When the ball came back, I wasn't mentally prepared. I ran blindly, right into somebody. The rest of the game was like that, for me. Running, and throwing, blindly and right into the other team's waiting hands."

"Mm," Coach S hums, assessing both my honesty and my potential to do better next time.

"Lance, I appreciate your acknowledgment that the cheerleaders caught your eye," he nods. "But it's been more than that, lately. Something is distracting you. Your head just isn't in the game."

My stomach retreats into my thighs, leaving an icy cavern beneath my chest. My heart picks up as Coach S continues.

"You're a freshman," he gives me. "So maybe it hasn't been drilled into your head enough times yet, but, this isn't high school football anymore."

"I-I know—"

His face hardens. He lifts a hand to silence me and continues, jumping into a lecture.

"You may have been a big fish in a small pond at your old high school—"

"But now I'm a whale in an ocean," I mumble, distracted again by the window, watching Hunk look around for me.

Coach S frowns and redirects his argument. I'm not really listening though. I've finally caught Hunk's attention. He blinks at me, clearly alarmed. With a quick flick of my chin I motion for him to come rescue me, or at least distract Coach S long enough for me to escape. Hunk seems to understand.

"McClain, are you listening? You don't want to lose your scholarship and get kicked off the team, do you?"

"No, sir," I say quickly, snapping back to face him.

He brushes the silver stripe of hair out of his eyes, flustered. When he looks up again, he sees Hunk standing hesitantly at the door. Coach S eyes me suspiciously before rising to address Hunk.

"Can it wait, Garett?" Coach S lifts an eyebrow.

"Uh—" Hunk falters. "I just need to give Lance this Post-It note."

I leap on the opportunity.

"Is that about my medication!?" I exclaim.

Hunk looks confused for a moment. He knows very well that it has nothing to do with medication but I need him to understand I want to make a quick escape. I try to indictate for Hunk to do anything but tell the truth. Coach S frowns, looking between us. 

Hunk folds the Post-It and shrugs.

"Oh, I don't know. They said you'd know what to do with it," Hunk ceremoniously places the paper in my outstretched palm.

He quickly backs away, toward safety. I don't blame him.

"Oh, gee, Coach." I pocket the paper. "I better go see about this. Continue this conversation later?" But I'm already halfway out the door.

Coach S rolls his eyes and grudgingly waves me off. Wow, that was close. I gather myself and chase down Hunk. He's left the locker room, already walking with Pidge, our small friend in the marching band. She's already dumped her giant bass drum in the band room, looks like.

"Hey, guys, wait up!" I call after them, jogging to meet them on the sidewalk.

Distracted, I'm almost run over as I cross the street. A loud horn jolts me out of my skin. To my horror, the driver rolls down her window.

"Lance?" 

Shit, is that the cheer captain? I put on my coolest face and turn to face the car that almost killed me.

"Oh my goodness, Lance," she huffs, accent adding to her haughty scoff. "You should really watch where you're going," she warns me, pulling up her window.

"Will do, Princess," I wink.

My best efforts don't seem to go over well. She flips me off without looking in my direction again before driving on. Hunk and Pidge, meanwhile, are laughing their asses off. Face hot, I finish the trek, coming to stand between them.

"Having a bad night?" Pidge sympathizes.

"Not necessarily," Hunk jumps in before I can respond. "He got a cheerleader's number."

The Post-It. I didn't even look at it. 

"Oh, that's exciting," Pidge snickers. "Who'd you have to pay?"

Panick-stricken, I search my pockets to make sure I still have it.

"Keith was actually very willing to comply," Hunk answers for me again.

For several seconds, my heart slows to a screeching halt. I can't find the note— I didn't realize how important it actually was to me. But then my fingers brush against it at the very depth of my right-hand pocket. I audibly sigh in relief, pulling it out. Wow, I am actually proud to have this slip of paper.

"Oh, Keith Kogane?" Pidge nods in approval. "He's cute. Since when are you bi, Lance?"

"Since... uh-always," I stutter stupidly, unfolding the small paper. 

The royal blue, lavender, and magenta jelly bands on my wrist only prove my point as they slide with the motion of my arms. I don't even need to look up to know Pidge is face-palming.

"Of course," she mutters.

Fuck. He dotted the i in Keith with a heart. And his handwriting is beautiful. Am I overreacting to every little detail about him, or am I putty in this boy's hands?


	3. One Night Stand !

*****

11ish PM

*****

The lot of us live in Paladin Hall, a co-ed dormitory. Heading to our respective rooms now, Hunk and I part ways with Pidge in the elevator. She resides with other girls on the floor directly above us. Hunk lives in a unit of three, including himself, situated in a corner. I've lucked myself into a single through a little finagling, though it's tiny and awkward.

"See you, Pidge, Hunk," I yawn, exiting the elevator.

"Don't stay up too late texting Keith," he nudges me on the way out.

"Hey! Be good, you two!" Pidge breaks in as the elevator door closes.

I shrug them both off, retreating into my room and immediately flopping into bed. I want to scream into my pillow. I have a cheerleader's number— a fucking college cheerleader. But I have Keith Kogane's number— a more or less impressive feat, I am unsure. There shouldn't be any doubt about what to do with it now, but my stomach feels kind of queasy at the thought.

"Why can't I do this!?" I mutter into the pillow, rather than scream like I want.

But the universe answers for me. My phone lights up. It's a notification from Facebook. Keith Kogane has apparently asked for permission to chat. He couldn't wait for me to text first? Maybe I should get to the point with him. He was obviously flirting with me during the game. Do I want to ask him out— er, or maybe Keith will beat me to that?

My heart is beating so fast, it actually feels like I might die. I'm so fucking... confused and probably sexually frustrated. I should get a grip, dammit. Albeit with shaky thumbs, I manage to accept his request.

“Hey Lance :)”

Sweaty and brain-numb, I form my response. I hope it isn't too dry, I'm aiming for cool and casual.

“Sup?”

“Jw if ur friend gave u my number?”

“Yep, I was just about to add you to my contacts.”

It, admittedly, is sort of a white lie, but I don't want to seem too interested or disinterested. 

“Okay :)”

I would add something witty, but Keith is still typing. And he types for a really long time.

“Hey, listen, im gonna be honest. Idk what's going on w/ me. I'm not uslly this forward but I think you must be different. I've heard a lot of shit talking from Allura... but I rlly want a chance to get to know you... It's kinda crazy but idk whether I shld like you or hate you... But I feel like that decision shld be made from an experience with *you* rather than Allura. Wld you mind if I wanted to get to know you?”

I read this wall of text a million times before I can actually work up the nerve to respond. But now I've been hit out of the blue with an ultimatum. He either likes me or hates me, but doesn't know me and can't decide. I can only formulate questions, so that's what I go with in my response.

“What kind of experience do u want?”

“What r u into?”

Is he going where I think he's going with this or am I reading my own desires into his messages. I suspect the latter, but I wouldn't mind the former. Fuck, I'm taking this really fast in my head. How do I respond in a reasonable manner? He's clearly looking for a kind of casual date— I think?— so I'll just throw some vague ideas out, I guess.

“Walk around campus? Coffee? Movie? Food?—“

My fingers want to type sex? but my head starts a new hashtag. #StopLance2k18. That is not something I should suggest to someone who might already disdain my sexual nature, and especially not as a first date. But, then again, as long as Keith is being forward, maybe I should be forward too. 

“Walk around campus? Coffee? Movie? Food? Sex?”

I can actually hear the blood roaring in my ears, I'm so nervous about that message. He begins typing, but then he stops. Oh, god. What if he's taking screenshots and sending them to every girl on the cheerleading team? Or, worse, the football team?

While I try to restart my dying heartbeat, I make good on my word to Keith, and copy his number from the Post-It into my contact list, giving him my number by simply sending a text claiming to be myself.

The conversation moves to text suddenly, and I can't check read receipts anymore.

“Lol hi again. So do you live on campus?”

“Yeah, Paladin Hall, third floor.”

There's another achingly long lapse in conversation. Minutes pass with no response. I know he has to have seen it. What's taking so long? By the time he finally does yield a reply, my fingernails are chewed to the nubs. 

“Oh nice, I was there but I had to switch out for personal reasons... I'm in Marmora Hall these days. Are you busy rn?”

“Oh, I think I remember seeing you actually. No, I'm not busy”

“Yeah I kinda remember you too. I think we ran into each other at the gym too on the way to the pool? Btw— Roommate situation?”

He's actually kinda easy to talk to, now that I'm a little more comfortable. Is he still going where I thought he was going with this, though? I'll throw him some bait and see if he tugs.

“Nope, I'm in a single— like my relationship status lmao. You can come by if you want? My name is on the door, you can't miss it, really.”

“Sure, be there in ten.”

Well fuck me— forget tug on the line. That was a hook, line, and sinker. But, shit, I can't have him over here. This place is a pigsty. I have to make it presentable. I toss socks and underwear and wrappers and paper around the room as I scrabble up a reply.

“Cool”

Something I try very hard to come across as being. Are these string-lights cool? Heck, I'll put them up. I'll clean up, decorate a little bit— should I wear something better than sweatpants? Nah... with any luck they'll just come right off.

*****

1ish AM

*****

"Anh!" I gasp, lips falling agape to be filled with his kiss. "Mm-Más fuerte, (Stronger/Harder)," I groan through the soft mass of hot flesh. 

"More what?" He appears to speak minimal Spanish.

"Fuck me harder," I gasp.

"Yessir," he articulates breathily.

There's no way my anus isn't bleeding. With every thrust, my eyes shut tighter and my stomach somersaults at the pain. It feels so dirty. My manhood is so fucking hard and weepy and throbbing, and I can't tell whether it's actually 100° centigrade in here, or is my blood boiling in cool air.

Shakily, I push my fingers through his hair and pull. Keith moans, complying. His name tumbles from my lips on an endless circuit. He's hitting everywhere that wants to be hit, touching and stroking everywhere that hungers for his touch, kissing everywhere that thirsts for his kiss. Despair climbs up my throat as I think about the ephemeral nature of this hook-up. I try to file every moment, every dance of light, every sensational thrust of his cock, into my memory.

Oh, fuck, I can't keep my mouth shut or the moans from rising in my chest. My neighbors are gonna give me dirty looks tomorrow for sure, with all this clamor. Small unhs mixed with loud vocalizations fill the steamy air. I suddenly realize, as Keith bites on his lip, that I wasn't the only one moaning.

"Lance!" his voice slides with a thrilled frisson. 

Somehow I'm reminded of the field when he called my name. During the game, I'd fancied fucking him. How did I get here? I can't say I'm too upset about it, though. This is the best sex I think I've ever had— my first time taking it up the ass.

My own pleasured shivers run up from my thighs into my fingertips like electronic pulses. I squeeze the fistfuls of his hair a little harder, egging him on. My body is approaching the edge. 

"L—anh! Lance!" he heaves with immense difficulty. 

I want him to come. If this is a one night stand, I don't want him to forget it. I make a point of tensing around his beating length, the pain ripping up my vulnerably spread body in waves.

His smoldering eyes shut tight as they fill beyond his limits with ecstasy. His warm release triggers my own orgasm, spatting and coating we each in sinful evidence of our passion. For several heartbeats, he hovers above me. I get a good look at his face in the ethereal mood lighting. His face is flushed and his lips are swollen, sweat dripping in beads down the perversely angelic visage.

I shakily unentangle myself, embarrassed. My legs are weak and my ass is probably in ruins. My bedsheets are likely to be garbaged after this, too. At least the rest of the room is intact after the frantic cleaning. 

"I'll get you a towel," I blush, moving self-consciously to get them out of the closet.

I am unbearably naked and cripplingly sore. I can feel him checking me out, watching my body move, and I wish I were still hard because there's no way he isn't judging my manhood. I swallow hard and pick up the towels, tossing him one and using my own like a shield from his eyes. Keith just continues looking at me though, his expression unreadable.

"You can—" I stop and clear my throat. "You can stay for tonight."

Keith blushes, biting his lip and looking down for a moment. He looks back up after a moment and nods. 

"I'd like that," he yawns.

"Me too."


	4. Remember

*****

Flashback to 12ish AM

*****

"I still can't believe you're the one I got this single from," I shake my head. "I swear I woulda remembered something like that."

"I'm telling you," he laughs. "It was my room for a year."

"Well did anything that I need to know about happen in here? Did you ever have sex in here?" I ask stupidly.

Keith laughs and purses his lips, as if trying to remember any remote instances of sexual intercourse. His gaze, a beautiful violet in the mood light, drifts upward to study the ceiling before bending back toward me. 

"Not yet," his voice is careful, embarrassed. 

We've been sitting on my bed for almost an hour, the sexual tension between us silent and thick. We've been eyeing each other's clothes, taking turns tentatively making eye contact, trying to ask each other silently how this is going. I find it hard to stop admiring Keith in this light. I wonder if he struggles with the same distraction.

"Allura would murder you," I smirk, not moving yet.

"Let her," he blushes, scooting to the edge of the bed and hopping off, only to remove his jacket.

I watch his shoulders shake free of the red garment. I didn't realize how vivid the color was until I'm suddenly left with a sexy silhouette in dark apparel. The harder I try not to blush, the hotter my face gets. I know my own skin has betrayed me by the time he turns around.

"What?" he chuckles. "Sorry," he gestures to the loss of his jacket, "I was getting hot."

He lifts his hand to push through his hair, allowing me to see he is still wearing black fingerless gloves. My mouth goes dry as I try to push kinky thoughts out of my flaming gay mind. I try to think straight thoughts, attempting to save myself, but then I realize he's reorganizing his unkempt mullet into a little ponytail.

My heart skips a beat, watching him. I inexplicably want to touch his waist as his arms raise above it. We each are muscular, athletic, but he's not as lanky as I am. Keith has broad shoulders, a trim body, a nice ass— a confused look. Fuck, am I drooling? I wipe at my face, flopping into my bed and groaning into a pillow. 

"You okay, Lance?" Keith asks as he approaches, amused.

"Nm-auch-ergh," I grumble, sprawled face-down across the stilted bed.

I guess Keith has a similar feeling to the urge I felt, because I'm suddenly being attacked with tickles around my waist. His fingers even slide up my shirt and brush against my skin. Immediately, I am up in arms— giggling and demanding termination of this ridiculous fight. But I didn't realize I was about to sit up and find myself in his arms.

The rest is history, as they say.

*****

Flash Forward to 4ish AM

*****

Keith falls asleep on my chest. It's pretty comfortable, I think, but he wakes me up when he moves. I really just want to roll over and let him sleep on his own side of the bed, but he kind of clings to me. It's sweet, but also telling that something must be going on, underneath all that sexy confidence and those firm muscles. There's a sad little kid embedded in that bad-boy mind, I think. 

I tiredly continue cuddling him. But my yawn, as I readjust, seems to wake him.

"Mm," he rubs his eyes, "Lance?" he mumbles.

"Yeah," I yawn again. "You okay, Keith?"

He rests his head on my chest and nods once, obviously tired. He draws a circle in my skin with his finger, apparently thinking. His breaths are still deep and even, as if his brain is still fast asleep. Keith looks as if he wants to say something, but feels as if he shouldn't.

"Bad dream?" I hold him closer.

He snuggles into my warmth and shrugs.

"Sorta, I guess."

"How's that?" I ask.

"They're kinda just memories, but distorted in some ways. I was dreaming about the day I went home with Shiro..." 

"Shiro?"

"You know him as Coach S," Keith yawns. "He kinda raised me— and is, admittedly, a big reason I'm attending this university."

I blink and suddenly see Keith in a new light.

"He's not your father, though," I discern. "Because you had to go home with him one day, as opposed to have already been living with him."

"We aren't related, really. We were actually both in the Civil Air Patrol. He was a much older member and a much higher rank, but I looked up to him for it. He must have taken pity on me or something," Keith recalls with a faint smile, tired eyes blinking.

He looks as if he's remembering a fond memory, but his voice is sad.

"Why would he have taken pity on you?" I'm clutching him tightly to my chest now.

Keith curls against me, still remembering.

"My mom was an alien— an illegal immigrant— and my dad married her just to help her into legal citizenship, but it didn't go so well," Keith recounts. "They were friends, but not much more. I came along accidentally..." he sighs, a pining look of regret in his eyes. 

My heart pings, urging my mouth to give voice to all the protests in my mind, but I don't interrupt. 

"She left me with him, unwilling to raise me, I guess, or just inconvenient by me since she wanted to join the military. My dad didn't want much to do with me, though. It was when he killed himself that I stumbled into Shiro's care... I was in middle school at the time. I didn't go to my dad's funeral. I know where he's buried but... I've never visited. I don't think my mom has or will, either. She could be dead for all I know... or care."

I can do nothing but let my jaw sit slightly agape. Did I hear that all correctly? The ashamed drop in his voice was real, so I imagine I did hear him correctly. But God... that must have been so awful for him. 

"Keith..." I'm at a momentary loss for words. "Keith, I don't know what to say.... I-I'm so sorry."

Keith rubs at his eyes and shakes his head.

"I'm fine."

I didn't ask if he was fine, so I know that he isn't. He only wants me to believe he is. I momentarily grapple with whether or not to press. His eyes are bleary, leaking ever so slightly. If I voice my suspicion, he'll probably burst. But if I let it go, he won't trust me to know how he's feeling.

"I don't know whether that's true or not... but your ass is fine," I say stupidly.

"Oh my god," he laughs, a few tears escaping, but easily rubbed away by the slight of his hand.

I notice them though, as I gaze downward at the beautiful and sad boy perched on my chest. I notice everything about him. And I wonder if I can't kiss the residual sadness amid his features into submission. Inexplicably, I find the courage to sing my thoughts to him.

"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you. Tomorrow I'll miss you."

Keith jolts, looking at me and fighting down a fresh wave of tears as he hiccups, "What are you doing? Singing Beatles?"

"Sh. Follow the lyrics' instructions," I chastise him, pulling his body up toward my face so I can kiss all over.

He laughs, wiping away more tears. But it seems to be a green light to continue. I clear my throat before singing again, mumbling some words around his skin between playful kisses.

"Remember I'll always be true  
And then while I'm away  
I'll write home every day  
And I'll send all my loving to you."

I figured it was a good song for a one night stand, off the top of my head. But I realize half-way through the verse that I'm making a much bigger promise to him than just one beautiful night.


	5. Confession

Keith manages a deft escape, averting my not-very-keen Spidey Senses. I wake up again feeling cold and empty without him close to me. More than empty, I feel pain and somewhat ill. I wonder if I ought to go back to sleep and just suffer for the rest of the day. But my bladder commands me to rise.

With immense difficulty and excruciating pain, I become presentable and just in the nick of time.

"Lance!" It's Pidge banging on my door.

Geez, what time is it? Isn't it early to be bothering me? I squint toward my window, blinds drawn but allowing dappled rays of thin morning light to peek into my room. I turn back toward the thumping on my door.

"Lance! You coming with us for coffee or not?" Pidge appears to have stood back, exasperated, the abrasive knocking coming to an impatient halt.

I open the door, revealing Hunk and Pidge in their normal attire but wearing agitated faces. They don't normally have to hunt me down in the mornings. We usually meet downstairs, on the way to our jobs or classes. It must be past 7:30 if they've come to evict me from my room.

"Geez, don't you check your phone, Lance?" Pidge explodes impatiently.

"Yeah, yeah," I yawn, wondering where I left that. "I'll be there in a sex— sec!— y'all go on without me, I'll meet you there," I wave them off.

But neither budge an inch.

"You're gonna go back to sleep," Hunk accuses. 

"Yeah, well—"

"Just what were you up to last night?" Hunk lifts an eyebrow, peering over my shoulder.

"Nothing. Uh, I was... Spring... fucking— cleaning!—"

"Damn! You were what?" Pidge exclaims, shoving into my room without any kind of invitation from me. Hunk follows. "That was extremely fast, Lance. Or was it not with Keith?" she inspects my laundry basket, poking at the sheets with surgical caution.

"Stop that!" I bat her away from my dirty laundry. "I— uhm—" I sigh, closing my door. "I guess since you're already here." I roll my eyes at the pair, Pidge looking reluctant to sit on my bed and Hunk at my desk. "Keith and I had a one night stand."

If Pidge had been drinking something, she looks as if she would spit it out now.

"Lance! You smooth dog," Hunk gets up to high-five me. "Was it good?" he eyes me with wiggly eyebrows.

I can feel the heat rushing to my face like a hot frying pan to the face. The harder I fight it, the hotter it gets.

"Yeah," I choke through the embarrassment. "He was pretty good."

"I can't believe this," Pidge tuts. "Tell me you at least used protection."

She explodes at the shameful shake of my head. 

"Lance—!"

"I'm sorry, okay!?" but there's no fire behind either of our words. "He was just... hot..." my blush worsens with the confession.

"Damn," Hunk pipes up again jovially. "Lance can get laid— who knew? Bout time with all the usual striking out. At any rate," he moves on. "Grab your shoes Lance. You can tell us more after you've had some coffee."

"I'd rather go sit on a toilet until I die," I groan, clutching my stomach in garish protest. 

It spins itself into knots, demanding all the strength that would be used to walk. Maybe I'll just lie down again.

"Hey, no you don't," Pidge intercepts my path back to bed. "It's your day to buy. You're not skipping out on us."

"I'll give you cash," I groan.

"Oh come on, Lance— wait... did you—?" I watch realization dawn across his features like the pink and rosy shades of sunrise. "You were the uke."

Pidge looks like her jaw may unhinge and fall to the floor. But whatever is on my face just confirms Hunks suspicion. Hunk looks at me, my spine wilting, my eyes tired, holding my stomach with one hand, and shakes his head.

"Do you need to see a doctor?" Pidge demands. 

"I'm fine. Can I just suffer in peace? I'll catch up and confess more later today, I promise."

"Don't forget you're playing guitar at the café tonight," Hunk tosses over his shoulder, pulling Pidge by the ear out with him.

I appreciate my pals, but I'm glad to be left alone. I don't immediately go back to sleep, painfully carrying out my morning affairs and googling what to do about the blood on my sheets (for my body and the fabric disposal). I debate for a solid hour whether I should text Keith. But I always come back to the same conclusion.

I sit tenderly in bed, completing online homework assignments with my laptop. It's well into the afternoon when I start receiving messages on Facebook. 

“You're alive, right?”

“Have you pooped today?”

“Yes and yes” I reply.

“Good, we're bringing you food.”

“Damn thanks guys.” I’m so emotional, I’m actually so touched, I could cry.

“Don't mention it”

“Stop adding me to this group chat”  
//Allura Alforson has left the group//

“Somebody add her back, it'll be hilarious,” Pidge inserts.

“You gotta wait Pidge, so she doesn't notice,” Hunk types.

“lmao this is why she hates us” I respond.

“Whatever, just be decent when we get there”

And right on cue, there's a knock on my door. Anticipating warm food and friendly faces, I hop down from the bed and stretch. But when I open the door, it's not Hunk and Pidge yet. At first glance, there doesn't appear to be anyone, but his sniff draws attention to him, slumped against the wall.

"Keith?" I ask stupidly, staring at— very obviously— Keith Kogane.

"Can I come in?" he whispers to the linoleum flooring. 

Awestruck by his unexpected arrival, I stumble backward and wordlessly let him in. He presents my phone unceremoniously from his pocket, another Post-It attached. It simply reads, Screen Fixed, in his wonderful distinctive handwriting. I lift the note and examine the screen, which has indeed been replaced. Incredulously, I turn back to Keith, sitting at my desk as Hunk did earlier this morning. 

Keith looks more out of place there than Hunk did. I invite him to sit on my bed, but Keith shakes his head, looking uncomfortable. This feels unreasonably terrifying. Is he going to demand money, or break up with me, or tell me he hates me? 

"I have a confession," Keith suddenly meets my unprepared and panicked gaze. 

"O-okay," I stammer, breathlessly pocketing my phone.

Before Keith can say anything else, Pidge and Hunk suddenly burst through my door, causing Keith and I both to startle. 

"Hey, La... awkward," Pidge crumbles upon sight of Keith. "Let's come back in a bit, Hunk."


	6. Awkward

"Are those your friends?" Keith looks interested in spotting their faces but they're gone as quickly as they came, the door banging shut in their haste.

"Yeah—" I shrug, embarrassed. "Uhm, you were saying?"

For a moment, I think he mentally undressed me, intently studying my clothes. Then Keith nods toward the phone resting in my pocket before awkwardly jumping into his confession while I jump back onto my bed. We either look at each other or downward, never maintaining eye-contact for long. An icy tendril of fear snakes upward along my esophagus every time I look down. He lifts his gaze to meet mine as if it's heavy and very difficult to do so.

"I acted the way I did at the game on a dare— it was supposed to be funny. Well, it was to make fun of you," Keith admits carefully, shame coloring his cheeks. "The cheerleaders don't like you much," he rubs the back of his neck and looks down.

My body tenses, trying to brace myself for the impact. He might just go ahead and apologize for fucking the shit out of me and then dump me with his sadness. Or, worse, he's going to tell me he recorded everything from last night and it's all on YouTube or some blog where the football team and cheerleading team will laugh at me together. 

"But I don't get why," Keith interrupts the stream of panic. "I got so caught up in the moment, flirting with you, I... was being genuine on false pretenses. It wasn't part of the dare to sleep with you— just to flirt with you and see how uncomfortable it would make you. 

"And it seemed like it was working, at first, but then your friend said you'd be interested in obtaining my phone number and I... acted on impulse... continued the joke. I told the team about it and they wanted me to go for it, just to lead you on... and then they wanted proof I'd gone through with it..."

It feels like my heart is bleeding. Disappointment rips in a violent upswing through my chest and tightens around my throat. I hadn't even thought to stop and wonder if he was behaving strangely. I was so ready to believe him... I was putty in his hands.

How could I have been so stupid!? All of it was a big joke, and I fell for it. I fell so hard for it. Holy crow, I think I'm going to cry. Fuck, I can't just cry— not now! I'll look even stupider than I've already proved myself to be.

"But then you were..." Keith looks up at me. "Lance, are you going to cry?"

"I— er, no," I wipe at my eyes, triggering a flood of unwanted sobs. "Fuck," I hiss, airless and pathetic. "I'm fine, just... keep going."

"Lance..." Keith bites his bottom lip, damming thoughts he doesn't know how to say. But then they too come in a flood. "I shouldn't have played you. I shouldn't have had sex with you or given your phone to them or convince you to care about me— I confess, I made a bunch of stupid mistakes. I wanted to make it right, so I replaced your screen for you, those cracks seemed dangerous to handle anyway. But that's not enough, I know. I... I'm sorry, Lance," he tries to reach out to me through my tears.

I can't respond through the wracking sobs, although I wouldn't know what to say even if I could speak clearly. He is so tender and apologetic and beautiful. I can see he's truly sorry, but it doesn't make me feel any better. I'd fallen harder for him than I initially thought, I have to admit. It wasn't the act I liked, although it certainly caught my attention. 

It was supposed to be a temporary hook-up anyway, why does this news hurt so much? Right from my heart, the pain flows into every organ. It's like Keith suddenly threaded a barbed wire into my veins. Is this heartbreak? I'm such a drama queen, fuck, I have to get a grip but.... 

I'm beyond hurt. I feel betrayed. And I can't help but wonder... Do I deserve this? Is this karma for everything I've done?

"Lance," Keith tries again, a note of despair rising in his voice. "What can I do?"

It takes a long time for me to process his question. I don't know, honestly, what he could possibly do that would make me feel better. Every option that comes to mind will only make me feel worse about him or myself. But when I remember Hunk and Pidge are probably eavesdropping, I remember the gig tonight.

"You could..." I wipe at my face and try again. "You should come see us tonight at Cailida's Cuban Café. I'll be playing the guitar. Pidge plays the drums and Hunk is singing tonight... uh... I don't know, actually, that's dumb—"

"No!" Keith protests, getting up and thumbing away my tears and nodding vigorously. "I'd love to go, I didn't know you were in a band," he smiles warmly, a red sun to my blue winter.

Seedlings of optimism root in the palms of my hands, raking agitatedly up and down my thighs. I help Keith wipe away my tears, pulling my fingers into fists as I dare to meet his gaze. All I can do is hoarsely thank him, an enormous blush blooming with the optimism crawling up my arms.

"For what?" Keith demands. "How can you thank me after all I just did—?"

I cross my arms over my chest and offer an apologetic smile.

"Thank you for telling me. And for trying to make it right. And for convincing me to care about you..."

A reasonable beat of silence passes before Pidge dares to poke her head into the doorway.

"Gross, Lance, quit eating his face and have something substantial," Pidge complains, stepping in. Keith and I pull away, rather awkwardly and reluctantly. "Be happy it's your usual burger and fries— Hunk almost tried to cook for you."

"Howdy." Hunk steps in, too, homing in on Keith. "We know who you are," Hunk extends a hand toward Keith. "I hope you're treating our friend well."

I glare at Hunk for that petty jape, but Keith just blushes and smiles, taking the outstretched hand firmly.

"I intend to treat him like a dear treasure," Keith replies, a little comically.

Pidge cracks a smile when I facepalm. Hunk appears to be sizing Keith up. For a split second, I wonder if Hunk won't hit Keith, the tension is so thick. But then Hunk releases Keith's hand and motions for Pidge to give us some space.

"That all could have gone better," I sigh, rubbing away residual tears, after the door closes behind them.


	7. Lucky

"Could have gone worse?" Keith counters with a shrug.

I return the shrug and move to find my guitar. It's hiding in my closet, I think. I don't keep very close track of my belongings, I realize. I must lose everything I own on a regular basis.

"Fuck," I hiss under my breath, opening the case.

"What's the matter?" Keith stoops to join me in the closet.

"I lost my Snark again!" I groan, closing the case and stepping out.

Keith watches me, mildly amused. "You have plenty of snark in my opinion—"

"Tuner," I grumble. "It's a tuner brand name," I elaborate, begrudgingly snickering to myself. "You gonna come out of the closet?"

Keith rolls his eyes and shakes his head, cheeks dusted with pink. "Oh, well, what does the tuner look like?" he offers, half-heartedly looking around already.

"Don't worry about it," I sigh rather dramatically, swiping my hair away from my eyes. "I'll use my phone," I pat the duly repaired phone in my pocket. "The tuner will turn up again... if I'm lucky. I wouldn't be surprised if other things are missing too since I was cleaning my room in a rush— I lose things," I babble. "It's an unfortunate misgiving."

Keith just smirks. "I should probably get out of your way then, huh. I'll let you get ready for your gig?"

"Yeah, thanks. I'll swing by Marmora Hall and walk you to the cafe, if you want?"

Keith nods. We agree to meet in twenty minutes. That almost gives me enough time to eat and be ready. But only just barely because I know time passes too quickly. Eating slips to the back of my mind as I try to become presentable and a little more professional in appearance. We ordered shirts with our band name on the front in the Metallica font, so I've got my work cut out for me in the professionalism department.

I've only just pulled on my shoes when I see the time. Clutching my guitar and my chord charts to my chest, I barrel out of Paladin Hall, still nomming on my food with one hand. I probably look like a tornado of limbs and cumbersome objects, speeding down the sidewalk. I'm surprised when I don't immediately catch Keith's attention. He waits at the door to Marmora Hall, immersed in his cellphone.

He looks concentrated on the phone, thumbs flying and eyes darting. He's texting in a busy conversation, I think. For the flash of a second, my pace slows as I remember what he did with my phone before he replaced the broken glass. He fixed the screen, but has he done anything to fix my standing with the cheerleaders? I doubt it, and he couldn't fix that on his own anyway.

I've slowed to a tired trudge by the time Keith notices my approach. His face changes when he sees me, pocketing his cellphone. I swallow hard and try to forget my thoughts. Meekly, I attempt to throw away my angst with the last of my food at the nearest trash can, coming up to him.

"Hey," I huff, sounding more exhausted than I felt two minutes ago. "You changed shirts— you look nice." More than change shirts, he added a cute black beanie.

He's gone from a slimming black v-neck and cute red jacket to an edgier graphic tee under a red and black flannel. The addition of all the darker colors and designs blanches his skin tone. The look is overall sharp and anfractuous, making me kind of want to touch him to see if he'll radiate electricity or something, but I refrain.

He shrugs. "You changed, too" he shamelessly checks me out. "Can I hold something for you, Lance? You look ready to drop."

I shrug and acquiesce, letting him hold my chord charts as I straighten to hold my guitar correctly. I thank him in a huff, tugging fretfully at my own clothes and motioning for we both to start walking. Pidge will kill me if I don't get there early. She normally walks Hunk and I down to make sure we don't arrive late, but she let me have a pass tonight just so long as I don't completely miss the gig. I shudder at the thought of what she'd do if I didn't even manage to show up.

Keith keeps my pace easily, though, encumbered and clunky as I am in my hobbled rush. He makes light conversation and I find myself flirtatiously bickering with him. For some reason, he gives me all kinds of green lights to continue. He's giving me the chance to dig in and get to know him a little more, I suppose. 

Walking under the dusky sky and tall trees surrounding the university sidewalk, I realize this is a somewhat romantic setting. Pride fills my chest when I think I'll also have the chance to show off my musical talent to him. But fear inescapably accompanies the pride. There's the possibility he'll consider our garage band lame or untalented. When I look over at Keith and that beautiful blush burning on his face, though, I feel inexplicably reassured.

And I'm ten times reassured when I get there to find Pidge fiddling with my Snark. She scolds me for having left it behind last time and I apologize while I'm also trying to thank her and clip it more securely to my guitar this time. But as the relief of having my tuner wears down, I realize Hunk is nowhere to be found. I half-heartedly begin to tune, thinking Hunk doesn't normally hide before gigs.

"Where's Hunk?" I ask, eyes floating toward the direction Keith recently departed and then down to the chord charts he left on my stand. "Isn't Hunk 'sposed to sing tonight?"

Pidge frowns, clearly still peeved about the answer. She fixes her glasses with a kind of pout and purses her lips, chewing carefully on her words. I self-consciously straighten my clothes, running my hand over the lettering on my shirt to smooth it. Pidge automatically touches her shirt too— outfits matching, although we each chose a different color for our letters when we ordered the shirts for our band.

"Shay texted him," Pidge crosses her arms. "She's apparently having a family crisis and wanted Hunk's emotional support. He already apologized to Cailida and left. So you're singing, I guess, is that okay?"

"Oh, I mean, yeah. Er— I hope Shay is alright...?"

"Yeah, I think she's alright. Her family was kinda unsupportive, you know, of her leaving South Africa and going to uni here, but now they're considering following her over. So that drama is being sorted out behind the scenes, I think."

"I see... well, alright. What are we performing, then?"

"You can pick some slow love songs with a steady rock beat— I know you've got a few in your chord charts— and/or I can get on bongos and we can do 'Lucky,'" Pidge offers, with another more apologetic shrug.

"You feeling 'Lucky?'" I lift an eyebrow and nudge her.

She unclips my Snark in the middle of my half-hearted plucking and tuning and starts to walk away with it. She practically leaves the green room before she turns around and sits back down.

"You've clearly got enough snark to last on stage," she explains dryly, although tossing it back over her shoulder with a smirk. "Yeah, though. We'll be fine with that and this crowd. Although they won't much feel our space-age band name, tonight, with that set."

"Whadduya mean?" I brush her off. "'Voltron' is a perfect name for every occasion."


	8. Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ¡Lime Alert!

The song set goes by in a blur. I can't hardly focus on Pidge's beat, much to her obvious annoyance, banging harder when I drift off track. I'm distracted by Keith's presence in the back, painfully visible yet unattainable. He's alternating between chatting idly with sociable Cailida and making furtive eye-contact with me, and looking damn sexy as he does, until Allura suddenly makes an entrance. 

The doors open with a glamorous rush of air. She naturally looks like a superstar everywhere she goes, and the look is effortless— I don't think she even intended to create a windswept aura of casual importance as she entered the new setting. Wherever she goes, the area itself just personifies and willfully bows to her beauty. For a second, I remember the brief phase when I was captivated by her unadulterated perfection, as if she were Aphrodite incarnate and I lowly human beneath her grace. I've since sobered and realized her cold and bossy interior is not as easily lovable as her bewitching exterior.

She hasn't come to see Voltron play in a while, not since she was our keyboardist and singer. But she doesn't look as if she's in the mood to listen to us play, scanning the café intently and then marching toward Keith and Cailida.

Cailida is a pretty Cuban woman in her early forties— whom always wears her dark hair in a messy bun with a pen stuck in the middle— that oddly contrasts Allura's own exotic beauty. For a moment, I almost confuse the two's ages as they sit on either side of Keith— given Allura's bleached platinum hairstyle and upright posture and Cailida's almost youthful ethnic features. But Keith regards the two women differently. Allura appears to be on a mission, demanding information, I imagine. But caught up in the drama back there, I almost miss a key change.

Mind blurred with irrelevant thoughts, I drop the bar and jump back in after I reestablish the melody in my own head. The small and informal audience seems forgiving enough, nodding along when I regain my footing— fingering, rather. The songs all went over alright, but surely was not my best performance. Pidge has words with me when the set finally comes to an end. 

"I know it's been an off day for everybody, but you better have your head screwed on tight next week, McClain. You're lucky Cailida's nice to us, but if you ever want a real gig, look at me— I mean it, Lance! Are you even listening to me?"

"Uhm," I hum, obviously distracted. "No." I'm putting my guitar into the case and fiddling with the tuner. I'm bound to lose it again if I don't put it away soon. 

"Goddamn," Pidge mutters, ever the harassed band manager. "Go talk to Lover Boy," she waves me off. "I'll pack up my drums."

"Well, wait, let me help—"

"Lance, Pidge!" Allura startles us as she gallantly enters the green room, Keith in tow behind her. "You were wonderful, as always," her lips are tight as she bequeathes the compliment. She pretty obviously has an agenda and is rolling over the pleasantries as fast as she can manage. I wonder if Cailida let her back here or if she plowed her way back here. "Mind if we have a chat?"

"Uh," Pidge shakes her head and awkwardly sidesteps them to back her way out the door. "Yeah you guys can chat. I have to go pack up my drums." And she manages a thin escape.

I am all but pinned to my seat under her catlike gaze. I swallow hard at the intent dancing under Allura's prim makeup. She looks highly satisfied; come to gloat, maybe.

"¿Qué paso?" I greet her weakly, "Allura," I add and swallow hard. "I saw you come in."

"Mm," she hums, "right," and smirks condescendingly. "I didn't come for the silly band, of course. I came to ask Keith about the dare, and I must say..."

She looks as if she might slap me for a moment. Although, I could be reading my innermost fears into her enigmatic presence. Nobody has actually given me a set cause detailing what I did to deserve this treatment, although pretty much everyone knows I had a rough start with the cheerleaders, Allura particularly. I guess if they're gonna pick on anyone, I'm the obvious choice.

"Congratulations!" she shrieks. "I had no idea you guys were actually going to click!" Keith blushes behind her as she bubbles on, "I absolutely can't believe how cute you are together."

Is this sincere? If this is still a prank— perhaps the entire cheer social media entourage in on it now— to embarrass me before the football team, this is getting a bit extravagant and I'm not sure I care for it anymore. But Allura is always pretty damn extra, come to think. I think I have no choice but to say something after a couple beats of uneasy silence roll around the room.

"A-are you serious?" I stand up from the couch to approach them and invite open conversation between the three of us. I will Keith to explain, or add any clarity to this whole odd shebang. I'm feeling pretty harassed over mistakes I made at the beginning of the year, as if there's no return from the bad first impression. I thought I was just being flirted with by a cute guy, then suddenly I'm the victim of an elaborate prank.

It is a prank on me, isn't it?

"Of course!" Allura hugs me. "You were always so much trouble when you were single," she adds with a knowing look, "but I haven't seen you even look at a girl the wrong way since you and Keith—"

"You haven't seen me at all. Except in passing, have you?" I interrupt, fully aware of the spying on my phone and check-ups with Keith.

Keith and Allura exchange a glance.

"Oops," Allura says lightly, as if it's funny. "It's rather funny, the situation we put you two in. We weren't expecting anything to really happen, of course, but I suppose we must be professional matchmakers—"

"Indeed," Keith speaks for the first time since Allura began to gush. "Thanks, Allura, can I talk to Lance now?"

Allura looks taken aback and slightly offended but she bows to Keith's request and leaves with a chirpy good-bye. No sooner than does the door shut behind her then do his lips envelope mine and his arms wrap round my waist. But I'm not sure I want to be kissed. What is even going on anymore? What was the mythical dare that pushed Keith and myself together?

"Keith—" I yank my head backward. "Did you ask her to come? What the hell actually happened?" And there is real anger in my voice, but Keith doesn't seem to mind it much. He nods toward the threadbare couch behind me, corralling me toward it. I land in a frustrated heap, still wanting to argue.

"Seriously, Keith. How much are you going to keep from me? I want to know the truth—"

"In a minute," impatience heats his usually casual and cool voice. "You were really hot onstage and I've been wanting to fuck since you sang the first note. I'll tell you all about the dare later, I promise."

My body betrays me, excited by his touch. And my passion outweighs my capacity for logic, so I sloppily agree to his terms. He presses his groin against mine, knees bent beneath him on either side of my trembling body. I feel like a pathetic creature beneath the hungry gaze of a cat as I look up into his impassioned face. Indeed, I think he's toying with me like a cat and its prey. Is it wrong to not care why, just so long as it feels good?

If I'm bound to be eaten in the end, there are worse ways to go, I suppose. And no sooner do I think it then do his lips plummet into a vicious lovebite on my neck. A surprised moan escapes my parted lips and metamorphoses into a sexual moan before I can even shut my eyes against the onslaught of pleasure. Neither of us hear the door open. 

She doesn't even skip a beat when she sees us. "Goddammit, guys," Pidge sighs heavily from the door. Keith does her the decency of pausing his attack on my neck. "Cailida is gonna kick us out if you impregnate each other in here; go on and find a nice private room to be fiends in— somewhere that won't reflect on the integrity of Voltron."

I look to Keith, still temptingly perched above me. He shrugs in good-nature, picking himself off of me and reaching out a hand to help me to my feet. I decline the offer and nod pointedly to Pidge.

"As you wish," I wink, collecting my guitar and my dignity. I motion for Keith to follow me, but Pidge stops him and mutters, appearing to give Keith a handshake. But then Keith jogs to catch up with me outside the green room, palm outstretched.

"She said you forgot your Snark," he smirks.

"I'll show her snark," I reply.

Making sure to be in plain sight of the green room, under the visibility of God and everybody, I hook Keith by the waist and put all the heat I can conjure into one kiss as she comes out the green room. 

"Son of a bitch, Lance," she flicks the back of my head in passing. 

Without skipping a beat I break the kiss and respond, "No, you." Keith just shakes his head, clearing his throat and trying to pretend he wasn't completely swept off his feet just moments ago.

"Goddamn," he mutters under his breath. Louder he adds, "We're gonna fuck tonight, right?"


	9. Tonight !

thank OneRepublic for inspiration, "Let's Hurt Tonight"

Keith and I have a hard conversation on the way backf from the café. I can't move forward with him until I get answers. Keith, willingly enough, finally offers me some. But it becomes clear, halfway to my dorm, that we need more time to do some of this walking and talking because now he's got me talking about my end of the situation.

"I was a cyberstalker, I guess," I admit to the sky, watching stars pop into the twilight. "I honestly thought I was being chivalrous and it was all in the name of courtship. I couldn't get it through my thick ego that somebody could possibly not be into me."

The sky looks clear tonight, but my head ironically feels clouded. I close my eyes for a bit as we walk on. I listen to our steady footfalls and the gentle sound of Keith's breath somewhere far away from— yet seemingly near— my ear.

"Even after she explicitly said she wasn't into you?" Keith cracks a smirk.

I shake my head. "She didn't though. I delivered my lines, she'd just block me, I'd wait, I'd get impatient, and then I'd ask her friends for another way to reach her and they all complied every time! I'll admit starting out with a dick pic didn't always set me up for success," I can hear Keith begin to snicker, "but that was only like... twice... only cuz the team said it would be a good idea!"

Keith laughs at that, a gentle chuckle. "I see," he muses. "She wasn't that explicit, then, to you. She tells it differently than you. But I get it: you were blinded, you thought you were in love. She was just... too high and mighty for that daydream."

Shit-talking Allura seems to be common ground where we can relate to each other. Maybe not the petty kind of hate for no reason, but rather two-guys-who-both-have-to-live-with-her kind of hate. That being if one can even call it hate. I, for one, still love to push her buttons when I can. But then, I guess the residual hate falls to my own self, in that case.

"I guess that's fair, then. You pegged me right— I really am so easily blinded, so quick to believe in love that isn't there... I don't blame her for scorning me," there's real anger and hurt behind my words there, and Keith seems to pick up on it.

"I..." Keith appears to weigh himself. He chews on his words and then he sighs. "I hear you, Lance." Keith nods, although looking pained as he does. "Allura didn't exactly like me either for a little while... probably why she tried to screw us over with this silly dare stuff. I know how easy it is to misread a situation, especially with girls. And Allura is the queen of girl politics. She's sweet most of the time— I mean she's even got her own tragic backstory to make up for most of it— and we all love her on the squad, but she isn't a good love match for someone like you or me."

I cast a sidelong glance at Keith, slowing my pace. It suddenly seems to me that this is going to be a long night. I remember the playfulness from earlier, at the café. I long for that kind of lightsome energy. Right now, it feels like all I'm going to do tonight is hurt through the memories.

"After we drop off your guitar and things..." Keith begins uncertainly, breaking me from my thoughts. No finish. I wait for a moment and then prompt Keith to elaborate. "What then?" he finally shrugs.

"What do you mean by that?" I smirk, wondering at the blush on his cheeks.

"Uhm," he shakes his head. "Nothing."

I want to press further, but we've reached the door to Paladin Hall and I need to produce my keycard. It's a shame, I think, I could talk to Keith for hours about everything that's wrong in our worlds. But it's probably a better idea to get up and out from that rabbit hole. I lift the keycard from my lanyard and thusly open the door. We walk a few paces in silence through the lobby.

"I need to pee," Keith announces. "Brb."

"You'll find me?" I call after him.

"Yep," and we wave each other off at that.

I gather myself and my guitar and trudge toward an elevator. I can feel the curtain closing around my head, allowing myself to look inward again. Whether from the walk, the conversation, course work, or maybe the football game, I feel thoroughly worn to the bone. I think I could collapse in bed and never rise again. Perfunctorily, I hit the lights on my way in and climb into bed, unconcerned with how Kieth will react when he comes up.

But it doesn't take long for him to appear— I'm not even fully asleep yet.

"Lock the door behind you," I manage through a yawn when he pops his head in.

"Uh—?" He trails off as he watches me sit up and take off my shirt. 

He makes eyes at me, flummoxed by the unexpected sight. I toss my shirt across the room in the general area of my dirty laundry. Keith dares slip fully into the room and carefully closes the door behind him. The lock clicks with a sense of finality. He peers through the darkness at me, but I just settle back under the blankets.

"I feel kinda off— or tired— or something," I admit to the wall rather than to Keith, so I don't have to watch him judge me. "I catch myself thinking that love is pain... and then..." self-harm ideation perches on my lips. All I want to do is let love hurt, let it burn, let it fester and slowly consume me from the inside out. 

Is it self-harm if it's just spoils of love— if I'm being afflicted so by somebody else? Or perhaps I am more accurately describing war. But then, war with whom? I'm confusing myself.

"It makes you feel insane, right?" Keith removes his shoes, padding in his stocking feet to join me in bed. I turn to face him, curl around his body, and nod once. "I know what you mean," he continues, "and it's hard to explain... but sometimes love does hurt like that. It's not the same pain as your skin ripping or your bones breaking... it's more like... howling at the moon," Keith chuckles at himself, looking down to search my gaze, see if I follow.

"I'll make you howl at the moon," I growl playfully, pouncing over him and flattening him beneath myself. He laughs, surprised. "Would you like that?" I exhale, blinking at my prey through the darkness, feeling the exhaustion lessen with the growing desire in my bones. He hums an agreement in response to my interrogative. "Could get rough," I allow a note of husky desire to enter the warning.

Keith bites down on his bottom lip and hums another agreement. I don't need much more than that, but I do need his clothes off. Keith is a willing victim, though. Oh, and his lips taste so sweet. Now I honestly can't decide whether I prefer the sound of his voice or the taste of his lips. 

But as the clothes come away, and our skin begins to brush intimately, Keith peppers the ad interim air between our lips with beautiful vocalizations. I encourage one of his legs up and over my shoulder, poised on my knees to make love to him. An anticipatory moan drawls from deep within his chest. His hands move to clutch the mattress for dear life, having seen no sign of lubricant. I debate for half a second whether to grab maybe a condom or something, but vindictively remember the lack of mercy he showed to me.

I'm probably going to Hell for it, but I just ram my cock into him and hope for the best. I have never explored Keith in this realm of intimacy, but I can scarcely detail it— it feels so overwhelmingly good. The room fills with the intensity of brutal, carnal, sexual union. I can hardly breathe above the combers of pleasure in my chest, coitally pushing in and out and in again like a hungry tide. I finally have to close my eyes against all the stimuli happening as tears stream down Keith's face, begging me to fuck harder.

His hips careen into my body like the buck and balk of a wild animal. The thought summons satisfaction. I told him I'd make him howl at the moon. Desiring now to see that picture in reality, I open my eyes, stretch a hand to grasp his hard want and gratify him. The overall response is probably more gratifying to myself.

"Lance— oh— La-Lance!" he gasps. "Lance!" he heaves. "Lance!" Desperation fills his voice as he approaches the edge.

"Come, baby," I coax him breathlessly above the rough lovemaking. "Let me see you release."

With juxtaposed hard thrusts and labored cries of pleasure, Keith reaches an irradiating orgasm. His body tenses around my cock, throwing me over the edge. I can scarcely hold on to myself, spluttering "I'm going to come," far too late, and immediately apologizing profusely to Keith.

"Oh my god," Keith just shakes his head. "That was amazing, Lance..." he sighs. "Er, I hate to ask but," Keith blushes, still spent of breath, "can I stay here again, tonight?"

"As far as I'm concerned, Keith," I begin, wiping sweat from my brow, "you can stay here every night."

Longer update, hope that was worth the wait! Do y'all want smut, fluff, or other (pls specify) in the next update? Don't forget to comment and vote ;)


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